


Softer than the Ground

by Tallihensia



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Comfort, Gen, Holding, Slice of Life, Snippet, just because, ouchies, read either gen or slash, sortof h/c, technically gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-12 18:11:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7944286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tallihensia/pseuds/Tallihensia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wet and tired and bruised, the UNCLE agents find a shelter for the night.  Napoleon, though, doesn't find it so easy to rest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Softer than the Ground

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: none
> 
> Spoilers: none
> 
> Disclaimer: Only mine in my dreams. This story was written for free entertainment purposes only and may not be reproduced for profit or altered without permission.
> 
> Notes: I just wanted some cuddling. It was supposed to be a little shorter but then I wrote 800 words just on the set up. ;p It’s still short. That’s okay, that’s all there is to it. 
> 
> Technically, this is gen with a friendship that’s comfortable on all levels. If you want to read it as slash or pre-slash, you could do that too. The point was for the friendship, though.

# Softer than the Ground

“Here.” Illya’s voice came out of the dripping darkness.

Napoleon blinked a few times, then reached and swept the muddy water out of his eyes, plastering his hair back yet again – a mostly futile effort so far. There was a slightly darker patch of dark ahead and a paleness standing in front of it. 

At this point, Napoleon didn’t even care what sort of shelter Illya might have found - _anything_ was better than the steaming, streaming elements. At least warm rain was better than cold rain. He gripped his knife and hovered to one side behind his partner in case something jumped out at them.

With a grunt, Illya wrestled the door open. They both listened intently yet couldn’t hear anything but splats of water around them. After a minute, Illya shrugged and reached inside his jacket. “Watch eyes.”

Obviously his companion was tired as well – the English was breaking down to the simplest words and more accented than normal. Napoleon closed one eye completely and lowed the lid on the other until he was just barely looking through. 

Bright light split the darkness, revealing the shelter they’d found. Illya looked from the outside, then stepped in, swinging his flashlight back and forth and upwards as well. 

“Ah, the epitome of home gardening – a nice empty shed." It was slightly bigger than a simple shed, with room for them to stand up in, but what else did you call something with absolutely nothing inside at all? Just four walls and a floor. He followed Illya in, scrutinizing the shelter for hazards and finding none. It was nice to be some place that wasn't dripping water on them.

Illya focused the light in the corners, both on the ground and up along the ceiling. “At least is dry. And solid. Good workmanship.” He switched off the flashlight, leaving them in the dark again.

Opening the eye he’d had shut this whole time, Napoleon was able to see the faint spill of light from the outside still, his night-vision intact on that side. The eye that had been exposed to the flashlight was light-blind, and would take some time to readjust. He walked to the doorway and paused before stepping out. “We’re staying?”

“Da,” Illya replied. “is good shelter.” He paused. “Is dry,” he repeated. Apparently even wild Russians got tired of the elements sometimes.

Napoleon assented with a wry grin and murmur of sound, then stepped reluctantly back into the rain to get to the shed door, open on the outside. He went in again, bringing the door with him and wrestled it shut. The tight seal on the door, and the way it scraped the ground explained why they weren’t sharing their shelter with any of the local wildlife. Even an inch of a gap was space mice could use to get in somewhere. But not here.

It was pitch-black inside without the moonlight. Not even night-sight could help. But there was nothing to see anyhow. After a pause where Napoleon reveled in simply not being rained on, he sank down to sit on the brick floor. “Ouch.” He promptly rose to a crouch and then stood up again. He’d forgotten about that.

“Cowboy?” There was a pause in the rustling sound from Illya’s direction. Unpacking his kit.

“Just a little bruised.” Or a lot bruised. The fall he’d taken earlier, slipping down the stairs on his butt, might have saved him from a more drastic injury, but sitting was apparently out of the question for the moment. And here he’d thought it was his dignity he’d mostly injured with that bumpy ride. 

Napoleon knelt instead, peeling himself out of his own pack. His knees were okay, but the calves were protesting the bend. It was tolerable. Napoleon reached for the zipper on his coat and then hesitated. “Here until morning?” A year ago, he would have made all the decisions by himself. Now, he had a partner to share them with. He’d gotten used to it, but every now and again, it still struck him as odd. Good..., but odd.

Illya hummed briefly with his usual noise of contemplation. “Da. Might as well.”

Nodding, even though his partner couldn’t see it, Napoleon agreed. He stripped his wet clothes off and wrung them out in a corner of the shed, trying not to spread the water around. It was a good size shed, probably eight feet by ten, or so – enough room for both of them and their packs, and a corner for the wet things. Even Illya would be able to lay out his full length, which wasn’t always the case for either of them. 

“There were hooks... watch eyes.” With a pause for Napoleon to adjust, Illya switched on the flashlight again long enough for them both to find and identify the location of the hooks, then turned it off again. They hung their wet clothes up, both using their memory of the location to move easily around even in the dark. 

Dry clothes were a little slice of heaven. It was a warm enough night that there was no chance of them freezing, but just being dry was a relief for the moment. Napoleon wiggled his toes in his socks and sighed happily. Then he settled down on the floor with the pack as a pillow. “Goodnight, Peril.” 

Illya grunted in reply, his voice muffled apparently by clothes he was still dealing with.

Napoleon lay still for all of maybe a minute before he shifted to the side. Sleeping on his back was going to be no good at all with the way the bruises were forming on his butt. Lots of flesh there to bruise, and he swore he’d hit every step with them on the way down. Still, better than his head. 

His left shoulder was telling him in no uncertain terms that lying on that side wasn’t a preferred position either. Napoleon wondered what he’d done to it; he wasn’t quite sure. He rolled to the right, then yipped involuntarily. The right side was fairly bruised as well. He’d caught hold of the rail with one hand, not enough to stop the downward slide, but apparently enough to turn him slightly, giving the right side of his upper leg a bruise to match the behind, and a tender hip that didn’t want to be on brick. 

He rolled to his back again. Then to the left. No. Maybe if he bunched up his pack under his back, he could avoid resting on his butt...

There was a long-suffering sigh from beside him. “Cowboy.”

“Sorry,” Napoleon apologized. There didn’t seem to be a single position he could rest in, no matter how many times he tried them all. Eventually, exhaustion would make the choice for him, but while he was tired, he wasn’t to the collapsing point yet.

“Come here.”

“Huh?”

“I am softer than ground. Come here before you roll hole in brick.”

Well, there was a position he hadn’t tried yet. Napoleon smirked to himself, then abandoned the thought – not the time or place. He gave a brief thought towards being extra stubborn and refusing, but he really wasn’t an idiot. They needed to be rested in the morning and his tossing and turning wasn’t helping either of them. Napoleon crawled slightly over until he reached Illya stretched out nearby. 

“How do you want me?” Napoleon didn’t actually _mean_ for that to come out the way it had. Really he didn’t.

There was a pause. “Is amazing how nothing stops your flirting. Come here.” 

Strong hands found his arm and side and gently maneuvered them both until Napoleon was lying chest down on top of Illya, his head turned to one side in the crook of Illya’s neck, his legs tangled just enough to keep them steady. 

Nothing hurt this way. At least not on Napoleon’s part. “I’m not too heavy?” His partner might have a few inches on him, and a figure that made lesser mortals call him ‘giant’, but Napoleon wasn’t a light-weight, and most of it solid muscle.

Illya breathed in and out, his chest lifting Napoleon with the movements, and didn’t immediately answer. 

That was answer enough. Napoleon moved a few inches down, so less of him was up on the lungs. His head was now on Illya’s chest, and his hips just below Illya’s. It wasn’t quite as comfortable, but was still a lot better than the floor. He stretched his left arm along his side, trying to get enough pull to stabilize whatever shoulder hurt he’d acquired. His right arm he tucked over, fingers resting against Illya’s chest. He could feel Illya’s heartbeat.

Illya put his left arm up to lightly drape over Napoleon’s waist. A gentle hold more to stabilize than secure. 

This... was unexpected comfort. They’d snuggled up against each other before to ward off the cold, or wedged in close for tight spaces, or shared a bed in motels or safe rooms. Their bodies were no strangers to each other, after missions and close calls and needing to bandage or stitch up various wounds. 

But this... this was still part of what they did still as partners, yet more. 

Napoleon rested with a cozy contentment, his hurts fading from awareness, his mind settling with security of where he was. It was softer than the floor, and warmer, and secure. It was his Peril, his safety.

With a few more breaths, Napoleon fell asleep.

* * *

END

**Author's Note:**

> I am overly obsessed with details. 
> 
> But they were cuddling at the end. That's all I wanted. ^^


End file.
